


Making Nice

by shrift



Category: Lost
Genre: Character of Color, First Time, M/M, Sarcasm Is Where It's At
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-03
Updated: 2005-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrift/pseuds/shrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a fair trade. Or maybe rough trade. Well, some kind of trade, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Nice

**Author's Note:**

> Written early on in season one. Thanks to grit kitty and SA for beta.

The sun's a fleshy red through his eyelids even wearing sunglasses, but it's something he's gotten used to after a few weeks on the island of Doctor Moreau's bastard cousin. Took some time, but he's getting used to the silence, too. It's a different kind of quiet, the absence of cars driving by, planes overhead, radios fading in and out with distance and static, and trains rattling his hotel window.

The silence also makes it a lot more obvious when someone's making a damn racket in the underbrush.

"Now I've been wondering -- a man takes off 'cause he tortured me and winds up getting tortured himself -- is that irony or poetic justice? Only dictionary on the plane seems to be in Korean, so I'm conducting myself an opinion poll." Sawyer raises his voice. "What's your vote, Prince Ali?"

The noise stops suddenly, and Sawyer can't help but grin.

"Heard you comin' for the last half hour, gimpy."

Sawyer waits until his visitor limps into his tent and collapses onto one of his scavenged seats, and then he pushes the sunglasses down his nose and stares openly at Sayid, who's flushed and sweaty after his trek from the Doc's Commie love-cave. His clothes are stained and bruises mark his body like smudges of dirt.

It's easier to wash his skin than it is to do laundry in salt water with bits of travel shampoo, so Sawyer's taken to wearing nothing but his jeans and a smile -- jeans in case the kid drops by, and the smile in case it's Kate.

"What can I do you for?" Sawyer asks, and the look he gets in return is sharp, but not as sharp as bamboo. "Cozy as this is," Sawyer says, pushing the sunglasses back in place, "I can't imagine the good Doctor sent you to check up on me with your leg full of holes, so why don't you tell Uncle Sawyer what you want so he can get back to the important business of his daily siesta."

"You kept the signal fire burning," Sayid says. "It must have taken a lot of work."

"And everybody knows I'm allergic to work. Why, I might break a nail."

Sayid snorts and Sawyer considers it a victory. "It seems you liberated Shannon's personality along with her sunglasses."

"Maybe I was a debutante in a past life, you ever think of that?" Sawyer asks.

"I think neither of us belongs in polite society."

May not be a jab, but it feels like one anyway, even if it's not something that brings him any particular pain. Wouldn't join any club that'd have him as a member, and all that happy horseshit. "Way to bring down a room, gimpy."

Sayid raises an eyebrow. "I would ask you why you made the effort to keep the fire burning if I thought you would give me a straight answer." Sayid's diction is crisp and clear, while still having something of a roll to his words, as if he tastes his sentences before he speaks.

"That a back-ass way of asking me what I'm up to?" Sawyer asks.

"If you like." Sayid looks away, stares at the ocean, like maybe it'll make it easier for Sawyer to unburden his immortal soul if nobody's glaring at him. Trouble is, Sawyer doesn't get performance anxiety, and he surely is blessed for sin.

"All right," he says. "How about a fair trade. I'll answer your question if you'll answer one of mine."

And now Sayid's attention is back on him, right where it belongs. Sayid doesn't waste time asking what the catch is. Instead he just nods and says, "Agreed."

Sawyer stretches in the sun, wiggles his toes, and draws out the moment just to make a point. "Kept the fire burning 'cause I don't wanna be stuck on the Island of Misfit Toys anymore than you do. I ain't gonna be happy anywhere doesn't have all the smokes, whiskey, ribs, and porn I can take. Would've trusted Kate to keep it going, but she drops everything anytime the Doc gets so much as a scratch."

Sayid scans the empty beach. "Are they all living at the caves now?"

"Most of 'em. Few holdouts."

"Like you."

"Well, I got these personal space issues," Sawyer says, even though they both know he isn't welcome to shack up with the rest of the survivors. So long as he still has access to fresh water, that's just the way Sawyer likes it. They sit there for a minute or two. Warm wind flutters over his skin like a woman's hair.

"What is your question for me?" Sayid asks.

Sawyer narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses. There are a lot of things he wants to know about Sayid, but only one thing he wants to know right now. "Why are you here makin' nice?"

"I cannot stay here," Sayid says after a moment, and Sawyer knows he ain't just talking about the tent. It's not anything like an answer, which means he gave something for nothing, and that always gets his blood up. Not that he needs a reason when Sayid's around.

"Don't use me as an excuse to crucify yourself, Habib."

"Why not?" Sayid asks. "Don't they say turnabout is fair play?"

He can't do much but swallow uselessly at that, throat so dry it clicks like his daddy's jaw used to when he chewed dinner. It was easier to face Sayid's questions when he was on his knees and bound to a tree, and that kicks off a dull burn of anger in his gut, making him downright surly.

"That's some dirty pool you're playing," Sawyer growls.

"We bring out the worst in each other," Sayid says, glancing at the forest as if he's fixing to leave.

Sawyer lunges without thinking, grabbing Sayid by the front of his stained shirt. "You ain't seen my worst."

The knife's at his throat before he realizes that Sayid still carries it. "Neither have you."

Sawyer leans into the knife's edge, just a little, just enough. "Then I'd say we got some exploring to do."

Sayid's eyes flare like the sun shining on a hunk of coal, and he tilts up his head. It feels like the air ought to be rippling like it does over black tar pavement on a hot summer day, but then Sayid draws back, slips the knife into the sheath on his belt. "No. I'm not doing this."

"What, you'll take it from some crazy French bitch, but you won't take it from me?" he snarls. He doesn't have time to react before they're tumbling ass over teakettle onto the hot sand. His sunglasses are gone and the sand is scratchy on his back, Sayid's weight pressing him down. He's heavier than he looks.

"You push and you push," Sayid hisses. Sawyer struggles, but the wiry little shit has some kind of Iraqi octopus jujitsu, and he can't buck him off.

"What else am I supposed to do?" Sawyer demands. "Work on my tan?"

Up close, Sayid smells like sweat and old blood. Sawyer's waiting for him to say something, maybe some kind of Pollyanna pep talk about pitching in and helping his fellow man, but that's just bullshit. Sawyer knows it, and he can tell Sayid knows it, too.

"C'mon, gimpy, show me what you got." Sawyer grabs hold of Sayid's leg where it's bandaged, and squeezes. Sayid grimaces and punches him in the face. Bright burst of pain -- he punches harder than Jack does, or maybe it's just that Sayid knows where to hit so it'll hurt like a motherfuck.

"What do you _want_?" Sayid demands, his voice tight and his hair hanging in his eyes.

Sawyer pushes up onto his elbows and kisses him. It's only a moment or two of contact, the warm press of lips and a swipe of his tongue, and then Sayid nails him, lands a punch on the same spot he'd stabbed days ago.

"Fuck!" Sawyer says, flinching as Sayid rolls away to crouch in the sand.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Sayid spits, his back hunched like a startled cat.

Sawyer drops his head to the sand and laughs helplessly. The pain in his arm throbs in time with his heart. "You taste like bananas."

The hostility drops down a notch as Sayid's forehead wrinkles. "Are you feverish?"

Sawyer blinks the bright blue sky out of his eyes, and makes sure Sayid's looking when he slides his hand to his crotch and rubs his dick through his jeans. "I'm something, all right."

Sayid looks really concerned now. "What are you doing?"

"What, you don't know?" he asks. Taunts. "You mean you've never done this before? No wonder you're so uptight." Sayid doesn't say anything in response to that, just rolls his eyes, but he also doesn't look away, and that's the part that counts. He works open the top button with his thumb and strokes the skin under his belly button. "You can watch if you want. I don't mind."

Sayid just tilts his head back, eyes at half-mast, mouth twitching sideways. Could be a smile. Could be a dare. And if it's disgust, well, Sawyer isn't exactly holding Sayid down and making him watch the show, is he?

The grit is long gone from his hand. He thinks about using his own spit, and then thinks better of it when he sees they didn't land far from his tent. He stretches and snags a bottle of tanning oil with his fingertips. When he squeezes some onto his palm, it's blood-warm and feels just fine as he opens his jeans and closes his hand around his dick. Sawyer strokes himself a few times, slow and easy. He's getting hard and a happy noise rumbles out of his throat, and then someone blocks his sun.

Sayid leans over him, his eyes curious. "I cannot make out your agenda right now."

"My agenda?" Sawyer asks. He laughs in surprise and keeps jerking off. "Why, that's easy. Item number one: get off. Item number two: fuck with Sayid. Item number three: fuck Sayid -- no, get fucked _by_ Sayid --"

And just like that, Sayid's over him again, hovering on all fours. "So you do know my name."

"Yep," Sawyer says. He knows the nicknames rile him, and that Sayid probably thinks he's got some kind of redneck hate-on for brown folk, but he makes the digs because they get Sayid mad as a cut snake, and Sawyer hates being ignored.

Sticks and stones. If he knew then what he knows now, Sawyer would've been a terror on the playground.

Sayid sits down on Sawyer's lap, and watches him jack from a whole new angle. "You want me to fuck you."

The crisp words send a shiver up his spine, and he tries to disguise it by arching his back. The back of his hand pushes against Sayid's groin. He's hard just from watching, and that's the best news Sawyer's heard all day. "You seem to like the idea. Why, did you think I was bluffing?"

Sayid's eyes search his face. It makes Sawyer want to hide, so he stares back and doesn't blink until he rubs his thumb over the slick head of his dick. He groans and his eyes flutter shut, and he thinks that he'd like it if Sayid took off his shirt so he could come on his belly.

"Fucking you here would be impractical," Sayid says. Before Sawyer can tell him to fuck impractical, Sayid kisses him. It's hard and hungry from the start, all tongue and teeth and lewd intentions. They're the kind of kisses that make you gasp and writhe, and go back for more like it's oxygen or water or the best damn barbeque in Texas.

"Up," Sayid demands, and up they go. Sawyer staggers to his feet and stops stroking himself so he can pull off Sayid's shirt. Sayid spins him around, pushes him forward into the tent, and then forces him down over one of the airplane seats with the hand between Sawyer's shoulder blades.

He could protest, but he's getting what he wants and he isn't stupid, so he just shoves his jeans down to his knees and says, "Condoms are in the green bag."

He watches Sayid over his shoulder. Sayid drops his knife, calmly slides down his pants, steps out of them, reaches for a condom and rolls it down his dick. He's naked and brown, thigh still bandaged, and his hair curls over his forehead in corkscrews. Sawyer almost reaches for the disposable camera he found in somebody's luggage weeks ago, but then Sayid kneels behind him, squeezing oil onto his fingers. He presses his nose against Sawyer's cheek as he pushes his fingers in his ass. Sawyer grunts, spreads his legs, and moves into it.

It's a stretch and burn he hasn't felt in a long time, a hurt so good he barely can remember why he doesn't do this more often, but then, any man in his line of business is gonna have some serious trust issues. And here he is, about to give it up to a genuine Iraqi who shoved bamboo underneath his fingernails, and Sawyer thinks maybe, just _maybe_, that this is more than a little fucked up.

"I won't be gentle," Sayid says. Pulls out his fingers, replaces them with his cock. His breath is warm on Sawyer's neck and his hair tickles, and Sawyer groans as he slides in, the deep kind of groan you can feel in your toes.

Maybe this is Sawyer liking dick just as well as he likes pussy, and Sayid being one damn fine looking man. But nah, this is still pretty fucked up.

Sayid doesn't give him time to get used to the feel of a dick in his ass. He just fucks Sawyer, hard and fast, the kind of dirty sex he craves like nicotine and hot black coffee and the last piece of chocolate cake. He goes down on one elbow so he can stroke his own dick, and the feel of getting it coming and going nearly makes his eyes cross. Pleasure ripples up his spine, sweat drips down his arms and stings in his eyes, and he grunts every time Sayid thrusts in.

He wants to come so bad he can taste it, and want tastes like metal on his tongue. His hair sticks to his forehead. Sayid's sweaty body slips over his back, and Sayid's hands have been on his hips so long they feel like they belong here.

"Fuck," he says. "Christ. We coulda been doing this for weeks, you jackass."

Sayid's startled laugh makes Sawyer close his eyes and shiver. He comes all over the airplane seat, bliss buzzing in his fingertips, and as he opens his eyes and stares down in a daze, he thinks, shit, I have to sit there.

He feels Sayid's teeth on his neck, and there's nothing but good when he thrusts in some more, that 'got mine, do whatever you want' high that Sawyer's taken advantage of hundreds of times. But Sayid isn't like that, or won't let himself be, and so he doesn't do anything but bite, lick, and fuck until he comes. His body is slick and hot against Sawyer's back, and Sayid rests his forehead on his shoulder for a minute or two. Eventually he pulls out and they both sort of flop on the ground, lazy and sated.

Sawyer reaches for a smoke and thinks about pulling up his jeans. Sayid's still naked, leaning on his elbows, his eyelids heavy. There's fresh blood staining the bandage on his leg, but he's pretty sure Sayid doesn't mind.

"You're staring," Sawyer says. He lights up.

"You surprise me," Sayid tells him. "Not many do."

"Me? I'm an open book."

Sayid snorts. "_You_ are full of shit."

Sawyer laughs long and hard. "Now you're talking." He smokes the cigarette down to the filter and stubs it out in the sand. The condom wrapper sticks to the bottom of his thigh. "Why did you come out here, anyway?"

Sayid sits there and breathes for a minute. "I don't know."

"Well," Sawyer says, "bet you'll know next time."


End file.
